


404 Email Not Found

by Dacelin



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Computer Viruses, Computers, Gen, technology is hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:42:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23667070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dacelin/pseuds/Dacelin
Summary: The first the Metatron knew about Armageddon was when Aziraphale contacted him to beg for it to be called off. Being a professional, the Metatron murmured soothing things about it all being part of the plan and rerouted the call elsewhere instead of admitting he had no idea what the principality was talking about.Prompt Fill in which Armageddon happened because Heaven didn't get God's email to call it off.
Comments: 30
Kudos: 178
Collections: BL favorites





	404 Email Not Found

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt located [HERE](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=2525785#cmt2525785).
> 
>  **Prompt:** God hasn’t abandoned us and is, in fact, concerned that Heaven is ignoring Her emails. The Metatron is responsible for sending them out to the rest of the company. Neither of them have noticed none of the messages are leaving the Ethereal Outbox. 
> 
> Just a silly thing I wrote one morning. Also, in my mind, the Metatron is, and will always be, Alan Rickman, so imagine the voice accordingly.

The first the Metatron knew about Armageddon was when Aziraphale contacted him to beg for it to be called off. 

Being a professional who’d been at his job a very long time, the Metatron murmured soothing things about it all being part of the plan and rerouted the call elsewhere instead of admitting he had no idea what the principality was talking about.

He stared blankly at his desk where a half dozen divine post-it notes were stuck to his computer monitor displaying messages like, ‘ _This Adam’s a cute kid. Postpone Armageddon a century_ ’, and, ‘ _On second thought, just call it off. I’m not feeling it._ ’

He had emailed the Archangels, hadn’t he? He might have forgotten one message, but not dozens. 

He searched through his email account, confirming the cheery ‘ _message sent_ ’ indicator dotted every message in question. Strange no one had ever responded back… Especially considering how proud Gabriel had been with the invention of the auto-reply. The Metatron had always considered that more of a demonic invention, but the angels seemed to enjoy it. Along with email signatures containing lengthy inspirational quotes.

He was still stewing over whether or not to interrupt God’s podcast binging when a very frazzled Sandalphon appeared in his office wanting to know since when had angels been immune to hellfire, and were they in trouble because Armageddon had stalled out?

The Metatron responded with mysterious assurances of God’s time being perfect, and all being revealed at the proper moment. He then cautiously asked when Sandalphon had last heard from God.

That his brother said it had been at least a decade since the last email wasn’t reassuring.

Once alone, the Metatron hunted up the number for IT. 

The IT department was in the basement since every angel who became technology-obsessed inevitably sauntered Downward. The connection was poor, and the Metatron was sure the demons were laughing at him every time they told him to, ‘ _please hold_ ’.

After assuring them six times that, yes, he had tried turning the computer off and on again, and, no, he was not still running Vista, the department agreed to send someone up.

It took a year and several more phone calls, but a demon finally arrived in a fog of Cheeto dust and a puddle of Mountain Dew.

“What anti-virus software are you running?” the IT demon asked.

“Anti-virus software?” the Metatron said blankly. “This is Heaven. What virus would dare…?”

“About 7,000 of them,” the demon replied as the newly installed software began pinging more corruption than a government-appointed committee. “And counting. Some of these I’ve never heard of. Or seen in years.”

“But how could a virus have…” The Metatron trailed off as the computer began to laugh.

He recognized the voice as the laughter went on. It was a voice he hadn’t heard in eighty years. 

“Pestilence?” he gasped. 

A smiling face appeared on the computer monitor. “Hello, Metatron. You’re looking woefully healthy. Lean in a little closer, and I can help with that.”

“B-but I thought you retired,” the angel sputtered.

“I was going to, but then along came all this wonderful technology. And I thought, why not have some fun? Forget penicillin, I’ve been spreading viruses and misinformation for years!

“And then my friends told me the apocalypse was on its way. I couldn’t let them ride without me, could I? And then, I saw your boss wanted to spoil their fun. I couldn’t have that. So, here I am.”

The face on the screen dissolved into a scrolling message of, _‘All Your Base Are Belong To Us.’_

“Outdated meme,” the demon muttered scornfully.

“What can I do?” the Metatron asked.

“Dunk the whole system in holy water and start over?” the demon suggested. “She’s imbedded so deep, I don’t know if you’d ever get her out.”

*****

Gabriel was surprised when a white dove landed on his desk carrying a scroll which informed the Archangels that all technology was now banned, and Heaven would be returning to its old communication method.

“I hate the old communication method,” Gabriel grumbled to Michael and they dumped the computers into the celestial recycling bins. “The doves poo everywhere.”

“It’s what God decrees,” Michael replied loftily, “and Her ways are infallible.”


End file.
